December 3, 2011

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  These are summer trees. 

  It isn't that the only things I think about are library school and autumn leaves. But I grow less and less certain of what to say here. It used to be that I needed a place like this to sort of shout into the universe. I've always both wanted to be heard and been afraid of asking anyone to listen, and writing here took away the fear of asking. Because I don't have to ask. If anybody reads the things I write here, it's because they choose to.

  But slowly this has stopped making sense to me. I'm not afraid of saying real words to actual people and I like being listened to almost as much as I like listening. Sometimes I expect to be listened to, even. But I also keep a lot to myself. And I like real paper. And I guess what I am getting at is that I'm not sure if I'm cut out for this anymore. 

  Which doesn't mean that Intend to stop. I don't intend to stop, at least not now. But I write less and less often here, and I feel like I always say the same things when I do. It isn't because that's all I have to say, but it's all I have to say to, you know, the whole world. I suppose I am apologizing for that. I suppose what I am saying is, I'm sorry all I talk about are trees. 

  I think about a lot of things. I write about a lot of things. Tonight I filled my third journal of the year. But lately I am trying to work out what I am actually doing, and what for. And until I figure that out - figure out what all this writing, all of this quiet turning inward, is meant to become... if anything - I might only be able to bring you trees.  

  They're nice trees, though, I think. 
   

  h. 

   

  • 6:32 pm
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